


Affective Transference

by darkwood



Series: You. Impossible you. [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Werewolf Mates, Werewolf Sherlock, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-22 01:22:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2489231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkwood/pseuds/darkwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had lost track of time in Germany. It was “waxing gibbous” the evening they had that row. When John stared at Sherlock for the term, Sherlock rolled his eyes and said simply, “Four days.”</p><p>It took John a moment to understand that Sherlock meant four days until the full moon.</p><p>This would not, in or of itself, have been a problem except that Sherlock, and by extension John himself, had been commanded to return to Wiltshire for the moon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Man and Beast](https://archiveofourown.org/works/496440) by [Jupiter_Ash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jupiter_Ash/pseuds/Jupiter_Ash). 



John had lost track of time in Germany. It was “waxing gibbous” the evening they had that row. When John stared at Sherlock for the term, Sherlock rolled his eyes and said simply, “Four days.”

 

It took John a moment to understand that Sherlock meant four days until the full moon.

 

This would not, in or of itself, have been a problem except that Sherlock, and by extension John himself, had been commanded to return to Wiltshire for the moon.

 

Brief forays out of the flat for groceries taught John a bit about the surrounding neighborhood of Montague street, but for the better part of the next two days they stayed inside. John became quickly acquainted with what Sherlock called ‘his experiments’, and was thoroughly impressed by his mate’s… thoroughness, even if he could not be sure what the purpose of all the mess was.

 

Sherlock rumbled in annoyance whenever John tried to ask, but the focus of Sherlock’s annoyance did not seem to be in the question. It was mostly regarding ‘previously sound judgments’, which he muttered about before flopping across the sofa with a distant expression. John learned quickly that Sherlock was unreachable at such times. For the most part it wasn’t even annoying, though something nagged at the back of John’s brain like a dog scratching to be let in.

 

Sherlock’s interest in his experiments - and that was what most of the clutter had to do with, John found, though he did not have to like it one bit - waned as the full moon approached. Sherlock’s subsequent agitated frustration at them went as well, so John did not take the shift too much to heart. Sherlock’s focus shifted in a pleasant direction, after all.

 

The third day was spent entirely naked and/or sweating.

 

Usually _and._

 

John thought he had been welcomed home that night on the sofa, but it was nothing as thorough as what he felt by the third evening. He was not a little bit sore, as well. He loved all of it.

 

The fourth morning, Sherlock insisted they shower together - a plan John had no objections to, even when Sherlock pressed him into the tile and had them off again - to save time.

 

It took John a moment of blissful distraction to remember what they had to be on time for.

 

They had a train to catch.

 

After their shower, Sherlock dressed with an erratic sort of precision, sliding long limbs into immaculately posh clothing. John appreciated the way his mate did it, found the sight of his ready-making distracting enough that he slowed his own to watch. Sherlock embellished the act of putting on his jacket by slowing it down. John’s eyes stayed caught on him and his fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt.

 

“We haven’t the time,” Sherlock said, in a tone that suggested he was reminding himself more than chiding John.

 

Aware of the childishness of it, John couldn’t hold back from saying, “You started it.”

 

Sherlock didn’t bother to deny it.

 

Once dressed, they headed out. As during the trip from the train station to the flat, Sherlock kept in contact with John. As they waited for the train it was subtle, standing close enough so that their arms brushed against each other, and once they got on the train, Sherlock leaned into him.

 

Of course Sherlock also sat with one knee bouncing enough to shake the two of them, but the closeness was nice. John could sympathize. They would be with Sherlock’s _abundant_ family again, and John often felt the same when going to visit his own, despite their lesser numbers.

 

John reached over and took Sherlock’s hand, threading their fingers together.

 

Sherlock startled, looking at him, but the twitching stopped, and Sherlock offered a tight little smile before looking out the window again.

 

A car was waiting for them at the station. The trip from the station to the hosue was just about what John remembered it as, though Sherlock seemed to grow more tense as the drive went on. When they arrived at the manor, Elisabeth was waiting for them, wearing a concerned expression. It was a look that John didn’t understand.

 

Then, suddenly, John felt a rush of anger tightening in him, and he couldn’t pinpoint what had caused it.

 

Sherlock did not seem to share his confusion. He released John’s hand and stomped angrily up to his mother. “You assured me it would be fine,” he snapped at her.

 

“It should have been,” Elisabeth replied.

 

**_“Then_ _what happened?”_**

 

Elisabeth flinched at the sharp tone of Sherlock’s demand, just enough to be noticeable. John, on the other hand, felt a rush through him that sent his muscles quaking and almost dropped him to his knees.

 

“We will figure it out,” Elisabeth said firmly to her son. Her eyes found John as he swayed, and she frowned. “John?”

 

“Hello,” John replied, voice tight.

 

Sherlock’s gaze was worried as he spun to look at John, and a wave of feeling hit John again even before Sherlock grasped his arms and asked urgently, “John? Are you- John?”

 

“Yes,” John replied, “I am me.”

 

It didn’t come out quite as cocky as intended, because John’s knees gave out and a hasty grip on Sherlock’s arms was all that kept him from ending up on the gravel beneath their feet. He felt cold, suddenly. Strong hands latched onto John, and he was pulled against Sherlock’s chest.

 

“What’s wrong, John?” Sherlock demanded. Warm hands searched him, and Sherlock ducked his head to sniff at John’s hair.

 

John found that his mate’s heart was beating harder than his own.

 

Elisabeth came closer, obviously concerned, but John barely noticed her approach. His mind latched onto an idea. It was an absurd idea. Utterly ridiculous, it was, but it was also the only one that possibly made any sense.

 

In the wake of that understanding, the trembling in John receded as he recognized it for what it was.

 

“You’re scared.” The words pushed their way out of John’s mouth before he was even aware he was speaking, and once he’d said it he wished he hadn’t.

 

Both wolves stilled.

 

“Pardon?” Elisabeth asked.

 

Sherlock didn’t bother asking, he stared hard into John’s eyes.

 

“Inside,” John said, feeling exposed with the force of Sherlock’s gaze boring into him.

 

There was a bit of jostling as Sherlock herded John into the house. Elisabeth sent away the butler without asking for tea - though it was the hour for it, and John thought they might all be better off with a good cuppa - and the three of them closed up in the private study off the library.

 

“Would you care to repeat what you said earlier?” Sherlock asked, his words half-threat instead of question.

 

“I thought you hated when people repeat things,” John replied.

 

A grunt answered him, but Sherlock waved him on.

 

“You’re scared,” John said again.

 

“That’s what I thought you said,” Sherlock muttered.

 

Elisabeth seemed more interested, though. “What makes you think that, John?”

 

“Because I feel it.”

 

Behind his mother, Sherlock stilled and looked up at him.

 

“I don’t understand this whole ‘bond’ thing that you all talk about whenever you bring up being ‘mated’,” John said, feeling particularly ineloquent and hating himself for standing in the posh landmark and rambling on like he belonged tossing boxes on a lorry somewhere. Elisabeth nodded to him to go on, though, so he did. “But when you mention it, you talk about it like it’s... tangible.”

 

“To us, it is,” Elisabeth said. “A wolf can sense their mate, even from a distance.”

 

“Right,” John said, “does it work the other way around, then? For humans, I mean? Sherlock said something about... genetic predisposition to...” John wondered if he was cracked for even thinking this when Sherlock’s expression shifted and John got a rush of something that _certainly_ wasn’t fear. Something that sent a rush straight to his-

 

“That,” John said, pointing at Sherlock. “Not _that_ in front of your mother, even if it is more normal for wolves.”

 

Elisabeth looked at Sherlock for a moment before turning to John, a smile playing across her lips. “My dear John,” she said, “do I understand you correctly?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes were bright, and there was a smile on his lips like what John was used to seeing on children around Christmas. He strode the few steps forwards and took John’s cheeks in his hands and kissed him firmly. “You incredible thing,” Sherlock breathed out against his lips, adding in a reverent tone, “you unforeseen treasure.”

 

“Missed something,” John said, confused by Sherlock’s surge of joy.

 

“Not all human mates experience such depth of connection, John,” Elisabeth supplied.

 

Sherlock buried his nose in John’s neck, and John blinked against the rush of feeling surging in him. “... god, I’m right then, aren’t I?”

 

“Feedback loop,” Sherlock said, chuckling into his skin. The proximity and the bright beacon of Sherlock’s smugness and elation and pride and-

 

John reached up to grip Sherlock’s arms to steady himself. His mate’s body, at least, was solid and stable. The rush of changing colors was similar to rainbow tied around a carousel stuffed into a washer set to agitate. Sherlock seemed to be rushing from feeling to feeling, and it all but made John nauseous.

 

Oh, this could be quite the problem, couldn’t it?

 

Quite the…

 

“So that… during the separation…”

 

“It was worse because we were both feeling it twice,” Sherlock said, pressing their foreheads together,

 

“Christ,” John muttered. “That’ll be inconvenient.”

 

“It’s brilliant,” Sherlock retorted. “Absolutely brilliant.”

 

“If _that’s all_ it is,” Elisabeth said with a sigh, “then the two of you will just have to be more careful.”

 

“More… careful?” John asked.

 

“I wish I could tell you we made a habit of studying the bonds we form with humans, John. There are some records, of course, but they may not be entirely helpful to the two of you. And there isn’t time to go into it now,” she said with an apologetic smile, “the others will be here shortly.”

 

*


	2. Chapter 2

Of course the full moon brought other wolves to the house. It wasn’t the full pack - Mycroft would explain to John over a cup of coffee following a hearty dinner just what the logistical nightmare it was trying to keep that many wolves unnoticed from the population - but the personalities were big enough to make up for the lack of bodies.

 

They came in two groups. Mycroft and his mate Anthea seemed almost to possess their own _gravity,_ for all that they were mostly silent. Then there was Horatio and Anne, who came with their daughter Constance. Connie, John was corrected by the girl in question, who stared at John and refused to speak a single word more from lunch through dinner.

 

John found that he liked the little girl as much as it was possible for him to like a silent, sentient being that would not engage him in conversation. He liked Anne considerably more. She was small, with dark hair and dark eyes, and petite. She was pleased to speak with John again, and when she spoke even Anthea joined in the conversation.

 

The conversation at the table was… oddly strategic, John thought. Rawden was absent from his seat, but Elisabeth presided over them from her end of the table.

 

“Any word from Charles?” Horatio asked, one eyebrow arched challengingly.

 

“No,” Anthea replied, “though that likely has more to do with the proximity to the moon than any desire to spite the pair of you.”

 

Horatio snorted, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

 

“Durga found the pertinent data in the cellular terminals, but all it yielded was the frequency of the communications,” Mycroft added, smoothing the napkin across his lap. “Though neither Aldrich nor Marianne have reported anything of yet.”

 

“That’s enough of that,” Elisabeth said in a clipped tone.

 

John turned his eyes on the Holmes matriarch. That was the second glimpse he had gotten of her as anything more than the polite hostess. The four wolves closed their lips around whatever else might have been said regarding the search they were undertaking, and for the rest of the dinner the conversation was left held up by Anne and John.

 

Anne, it turned out, had a particular fondness for James Bond.

 

John knew he liked her when they first met, but he had greater hopes of some sibling camaraderie now that he knew that about her.

 

He politely ignored Sherlock’s articulate eye-roll.

 

As the dinner concluded, the wolves left the dining room and went into a side parlor. Rawden met them as they were adjourning, and indicated that he would be staying in that evening. The others were to mind their mother.

 

There was a room full of chuckles as they all began to take off their clothing, which for a brief moment struck John as being completely without modesty until it became obvious that he was the only one who thought so. This was all family, and there wasn’t anything to be embarrassed about.

 

And then the change started.

 

John had seen it three times before -- twice, really, because how could you count the one that was impossible to see while driving a snowmobile from attacking gunmen -- but this setting was far more fascinating. The group of them all stripped down, conversation continuing until it died off slowly. Even little Connie had been talking (to the others, of course not to John) and she fell silent too.

 

Sherlock, who had been standing by John, stepped away, though he kept one eye turned towards him for longer than he needed to.

 

As a group they all stretched, up to their full height, and beyond it for a moment. John didn’t know where to look at first, but his eyes found their favorite resting place in Sherlock as the change took his mate.

 

They all changed at different speeds, independent of age. It seemed to be rather based on the size of the wolf. Seemed to, because once it started, it was over too quickly to take them all at once.

 

John found himself standing in a room full of wolves. Well, Wolves would be more accurate. They were larger than any real wolf had a right to be, the adults anyway. By their positioning, John could tell who was who. Sherlock was the largest, darkest of them, though Anne’s coat was a similar inky black. There were three in shades of browns. It turned out that Mycroft’s coat had so much red in it that he was a sort of cinnamon ginger. Across the room, nearest the door sat Elisabeth, silver and white and with the same piercing eyes she had as a human.

 

A wet nose shoved itself into John’s crotch, and he suppressed a chuckle at Sherlock’s blatantly possessive behavior.

 

The rest of the wolves headed silently out the door. Sherlock’s teeth closed on the hem of John’s jacket and a firm tug indicated as much as the rush of feeling that John was meant to follow.

 

“I’ll never keep up with you lot,” John said.

 

A second tug and a rush of irritation were John’s only answer. He gave up arguing because he rather liked this new jacket. So out he followed, as Sherlock went slowly enough not to lose him in the patchy moonlight that made it through the trees.

 

It felt like something out of a fairy tale, honestly. The top of the hill was the one he had visited with Elisabeth before on his first visit, and now he thought of just how practical it was that they had such a large estate. John wondered if the other groups of the pack had the same amount of space.

 

Down the other side of the hill, John caught his foot on a root and took a bit of a tumble. Sherlock checked his fall by providing a warm furry side to trip into, and gave a soft growling huff of annoyance. It was just the once, though, and it was rather dark out.

 

At the bottom of the hill, tucked in between the trees, the others were waiting. Elisabeth seemed in charge, as she nosed Connie towards John and Sherlock before rising from her seated position and disappearing into the trees.

 

“Babysitting?” John asked Sherlock as the other wolves followed after Elisabeth.

 

Connie bit at his pantleg, and Sherlock gave a very human sort of a shrug before picking Connie up and tossing her playfully.

 

It wasn’t quite what John had expected. For several hours Sherlock and Connie played - something John would pay money to see his two-legged Sherlock do - while John watched and half-slept propped up against a tree. The shadows of the trees did not seem to move on the ground as time passed. The moon climbed the sky slowly, like an old man headed up a tall staircase. It was mostly dry where John was seated, thankfully, but as time drew on it got a bit chilly without the fur coat. If this was going to be a monthly thing, he’d have to remember to bring a blanket along.

 

Then it became obvious that Connie was becoming tired, and Sherlock was growing restless. The playing tapered off and Sherlock trotted over to lick John’s face and smell at his neck. John put an arm around Sherlock, digging his fingers into his mate’s coat to pet him in return, and then Sherlock pulled back. He headed over to where Connie was seated, and nosed her in John’s direction before darting into the trees.

 

John had no real idea what to do with that. Thankfully Connie was better versed at the whole thing. She shuffled over and crawled into his lap. John’s slight chill went away, and the sudden warmth was enough that he was nodding off almost as soon as Connie found her comfortable spot to sleep in.

 

*


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to get this up before November started, and wanted to have all 4 chapters posted, but that isn't what happened. Unfortunately. There is one more chapter in this story, and this story is not the end of this series, but I won't make any promises that there will be any more chapters before December sometime. Daily wordcount requirements for Nano are 1667 per day, and I am aiming to win again this year.
> 
> So in the meantime, here is chapter 3. I hope you enjoy it.

*

 

That night John slept in fits, if one could even call his rest sleeping. His mind was active, prowling through the shadowed woodland, buzzing with energy he felt he could barely contain. There were hours of night to be conquered, and he had the reign of it all: up hills and through trees, doubling back around outcroppings of rock, splashing first one direction and then the other up and down a stream.

 

The vividness of it captured John each time his eyes slid shut, until the moon faded, and sleep took him properly into his arms.

 

The scent of coffee woke John. With the tree at his back and the lap full of little girl, that was a bit strange.

 

Sherlock was crouched - fully dressed - in the pre-dawn light, holding a thermos and what appeared to be Connie’s pajamas. He was dressed, wearing crisp jeans and a shirt that was not-quite white. In the misty morning light, he seemed bright-eyed and refreshed, despite the prior night’s time spent entirely awake. He radiated relaxation and an amused contentment.

 

John wished he could feel quite the same. His back was stiff from the cold, and his shoulder was aching. The sleep he’d gotten had been light and rough, filled with a sense of exhilaration and exertion that was, undoubtedly, from his mate’s activities.

 

Still, Sherlock had thought to bring coffee.

 

“You’re brilliant,” John said softly, nodding to the thermos.

 

“She slept through the night,” Sherlock replied, holding the coffee out.

 

“Is that unusual?” John asked, taking the coffee. He half expected there to be an obscene amount of sugar in it, but the cup was unsweetened with a bit of milk, just as he liked it most.

 

“Apparently she hasn’t since I went missing,” Sherlock said. “Let’s get her dressed and inside.”

 

Between the two of them it didn’t take much, even with the mug of coffee that John kept pausing to take grateful swallows of. Once she was dressed, Sherlock hefted her in his arms.

 

“I can do that,” John offered, finding that he missed her when she was gone from him.

 

“Your shoulder is troubling you,” Sherlock said simply, and led the way back to the house.

 

The climb up the hill was slow going. Sherlock seemed to have no trouble with it, but John was not as well off. Either prophetic or just terribly observant, Sherlock was right about his shoulder. It ached with the cold, and the rest of him seemed to be having sympathy pains. The pace was slow enough, though, to make up for it.

 

“How was the run, then?” John asked.

 

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at John, pale eyes bright. “It’s good to stretch my legs a bit,” he replied.

 

John couldn’t help but snort at that. Sherlock had gone so quickly he had practically _disappeared_ into the trees once Connie had settled on his lap. And, given John’s dreams, whatever running he had done must have been considerably more than ‘stretching his legs’.

 

Sherlock slowed further, reaching one arm out to take John’s elbow as they came to a groove in the dirt, likely where John had taken the tumble the night before. “Steep here,” he mumbled, tucking Connie against his shoulder as he assisted John.

 

“It’s fine,” John replied, though he didn’t shrug off Sherlock’s hand.

 

It occurred to John then to look at his hands. There were smears from the fall, with little clean spots from where he’d sloshed his coffee. His pants and jacket were dirty as well, but there was no help for it until they made it back to the house.

 

The top of the hill was a welcome sight, and the slope back to the manicured part of the grounds was an easy one.

 

Sherlock’s strides matched John’s as they made their way down the hill, and the tone of his emotions - broadcast constantly and openly, it seemed, now that he was aware of John as the receiver of them - shifted subtly. The relaxation remained, but the pitch seemed to shift. The contentment was… different, somehow.

 

John lost himself in the distraction offered by the array of Sherlock’s feelings so thoroughly that the open back door was a surprise when they reached it.

 

A yawning, disheveled Anne met them in the room where the wolves had changed the night before. She gave Sherlock a knowing wink before tucking Connie against her shoulder and heading off down a hall somewhere.

 

The clocks all chimed the hour mutedly, as though even they were worn out by the full moon.

 

It was all surprisingly relaxed and easy.

 

John was grateful for that.

 

It was nothing at all like an early morning in the Watson household had become.

 

The great old house was quiet in the early morning, and John wondered what luck had gotten him somewhere like this. It was certainly worlds away from where he had expected to go after the gunshot, the hospital, and then the kidnapping. He-

 

“John.”

 

Looking over, he found Sherlock was staring at him. Reaching further, there was the familiar sensation of desire, but there was something sweeter about it.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

A warm arm wrapped around John, and he felt a chill that he hadn’t been quite aware of before. Sherlock kissed John’s forehead and tugged on his waist. “Come to bed.”

 

John had absolutely no objections to that.

 

The thermos got lost somewhere in the transition. Sherlock’s blue room was just up the stairs, awaiting them as it always was. John allowed the warm arms of his mate to guide him to it, turning his face up for the languid kisses Sherlock pressed to his skin.

 

John’s dirty pants and jacket weren’t an issue for the floor as they were discarded. Sherlock’s clothing went the same way. None of that mattered, the floor couldn’t tell the difference between dirty and clean. Then they were both bare and the sheets took them in.

 

It was bright, and warm, and slow.

 

This was not the frantic passion of London, nor the desperate kisses of Russia.

 

There was a word for this sort of coupling, one that neither of them had yet spoken. John couldn’t tell if the sentiment behind that missing word was understood, if it might never be uttered, or, truly, if it _need_ be uttered for any reason. Here was this, his mate, and here they fit together as John had never fit with anything in his entire life before.

 

As soon as he recognized it, the feeling of _rightness_ intensified. John did not question the feeling, and he did not care which of them had felt it first.

 

Together they sank down into the nest the bed had become. Sherlock grabbed blindly at the bedclothes and pulled them up, wrapping them both up as he wrapped himself around John. John sank into the embrace, leaning his cheek against Sherlock’s collarbone, and couldn’t resist pressing a kiss there even as his eyelids grew too heavy to keep open.

 

“Sometime we will run together,” Sherlock promised in a low voice, kissing his temple.

 

“I’ll never keep up,” John mumbled, pleased to feel his mate’s skin against his lips.

 

Sherlock huffed softly, stroked John’s hair, and kissed his head. “It doesn’t matter to me,” he said softly, “you will be there.”

 

“I will,” John assured him when the tang of uncertainty from Sherlock made it seem that words might be needed in reply.

 

His mate settled, stroking his spine in all the stiff places in a way that was slightly uncomfortable but perfect. Sherlock’s touch left John’s back at ease, and Sherlock curled closer around him reinforced the sensation. “Sleep,” Sherlock offered, “it’ll be brunch today.”

 

John wanted, very much, to know what that uncertainty came from. He wanted to question it so that he could answer, because if Sherlock’s question was ‘will you be there?’ then John’s answer would always be ‘With you.’

 

The comfort of the room, of the warm, firm man against him and the sunlight coaxing his eyes closed was stronger than that little doubt. All John managed was to mouth his answer against Sherlock’s skin, “With you.”

 

*


	4. Chapter 4

The moon had been on a Friday evening, and the in-laws, as John had settled on thinking of the rest of the pack until he found some reason to use another term, were at least lively company. Well, that is to say that Horatio, Anne, and Connie were lively company. Mycroft and Anthea were gone by the time brunch was called for.

 

“Don’t mind it,” Anne said to John as they settled in at the table. “One or the other of the two of them always has something on that needs dashing after.”

 

John lifted a brow at that.

 

She seemed shocked. “You mean Mycroft hasn’t given you the ‘humble civil servant’ routine?”

 

“We met under… extraordinary circumstances,” John said.

 

Anne’s face did a rather complicated contortion as she realized her mistake and coughed out a soft apology. “I… don’t really connect you with all of that, sorry.”

 

Across the table, Sherlock was having his ear all but talked off by a suddenly loquacious Connie. Every time he tried to turn his attention anywhere else, she grabbed his sleeve and gave a vicious tug.

 

“The only thing **_I_ ** take from all of it is Sherlock,” John said.

 

Sherlock’s attention caught at John’s words. A rush of feeling spilled into John as Sherlock’s head snapped round to look at John, and no amount of Connie’s tugging could draw Sherlock’s attention away.

 

John looked up to meet his mate’s gaze, and for a moment there was heat, as there had been that morning and on nights and days before it, but there was something different, something warm and fond beneath it that drew John’s lips into a smile.

 

As sometimes seems to happen in these moments of connection, the sound in the room fell away, and there was only the two of them.

 

Sherlock stared at John as he had yesterday afternoon, with an awed slackness to his expression and a glint in his eye. The corners of his lips quirked upwards and he moistened his lips with his tongue before lowering his eyes to his plate. John watched as his mate patted Connie’s hand on his sleeve consolingly, and Sherlock’s eyes returned to him as he bent to whisper something into the girl’s ear.

 

Anne patted John on the forearm in much the same manner that Sherlock had Connie. “I take it what Elisabeth said was true, then,” she commented, drawing John at last from his diverted attention.

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“About you and Sherlock.”

 

“What she said-?

 

“That you’re-” she made a gesture of linking between them. “Tightly, I mean.”

 

A swell of pride came over him, and John couldn’t fight the grin off his face. “It seems so,” John replied.

 

Anne resettled the napkin across her lap, reached out and took her glass in hand to sip it before she said, “My grandmother always used to say that some humans could hear our echoes.”

 

“Hear your… echoes?”

 

“I suppose it was her folksy way of saying some humans have an affinity for we wolves,” Anne replied. “I didn’t believe her for a long time. Gerard does for Marianne, of course, but it doesn’t seem anything like-” She gestured politely between John and Sherlock again.

 

“Sherlock said that Marianne’s less… active.”

 

Anne chuckled in response. “That’s true,” she allowed, “but it seems different, when you watch them.”

 

John didn’t have a response to that statement, but he was uncertain anyone would. Despite that, he was glad to be among the wolves, he found. They were warm, and accepting enough, for the most part. The dynamic was different with each of them, and though they seemed to be very different, they were all… well, for lack of a better term, family. At first the only reply he could find sounded disparaging, and that wasn’t right. There was nothing lesser about Marianne or her connection with her mate. It was just _different_ from what John had with Sherlock.

 

“I… suppose it does,” John said, finally finding a reply he liked, “but I can’t exactly watch the way I look at Sherlock. I’m on the inside.”

 

“We’ll have to get you to the ballroom then,” Anne said, “there’s mirrors enough in there for you to see as well as look.”

 

“Provided he cares to look away,” Horatio said from behind his newspaper.

 

John had almost forgotten that Horatio was at the table. It was odd, that. Glancing over at him, though, it became apparent that Horatio was enjoying the little domestic scene playing out before him, even with his nose tucked into the newspaper.

 

Elisabeth was absent from the table, John realized, though she had been with them at the start of the meal. John could only wonder if there was something that Rawden needed. The patriarch hadn’t been seen since the night before. The doctor within his mind began to puzzle through the aging of a werewolf. He wondered what strain it put on the body - on both the bodies. He wondered if there were any tendency towards arthiritic complaints, or tendon strain from all the shifting back and forth. He wondered-

 

Sherlock snorted, drawing John’s attention back to the table.

 

Anne wore an amused expression, and Horatio was chuckling softly.

 

“What?” John asked.

 

“I can almost _see_ you thinking,” Horatio said. “No wonder you fit Sherlock so well.”

 

John withheld his blush. Sherlock lacked the compulsion, preening slightly at the praise of their connection though his pride seemed to keep him from outright boasting about it.

 

“You needn’t be modest, John,” Horatio said, turning the page in his paper and spearing another forkful of eggs.

 

Anne chuckled in response.

 

Connie tugged rather viciously on Sherlock’s sleeve, and her insistence drew even John’s attention to her. “You ought to just **_tell_ ** me,” she demanded.

 

“It wouldn’t matter if I did,” Sherlock replied, snapping up another piece of sausage.

 

“That’s not fair!”

 

“Connie, lower your voice,” Horatio chided, more focused on his newspaper in that moment than his daughter, “just because Grandmother Elisabeth isn’t present doesn’t mean you may disrespect the table.”

 

Connie glared at her father, and Anne gave a soft sigh. “What is the matter?”

 

“Sherlock won’t tell me what finding his mate was like,” Connie huffed.

 

Horatio and Anne exchanged a look between them, and Sherlock took up his coffee cup. Obviously there was some reason they weren’t telling Connie about it - probably something to do with the death-defying escape from incarceration, or perhaps how John had been all but trussed up as a meal at the time - but John’s lips weren’t quite as sealed as the others.

 

“The sun came through the clouds.”

 

The girl’s dark eyes fixed on John, and he thought he could honestly say it was the first time she had looked at him. Beside her, Sherlock blinked articulately. Horatio frowned, folding down the top of his paper, and Anne tilted her head. “I don’t think that’s what she’s-”

 

“That’s a funny way of putting it,” Connie said. “What do you mean?”

 

John spread his hands, offering a shrug. He was aware of the way that Sherlock was staring at him, and he could feel the nervous energy of his mate. The feeling was like a fluttering, refusing to settle into any single emotion. It was unsettling, to say the least. “Just what I said,” John replied.

 

“But that’s so… so subjective!”

 

“Then you should learn to ask a proper question,” Sherlock said, picking up his fork and spearing another sausage. “Because John has answered what you asked. Quite succinctly, I might add.”

 

Horatio chuckled and took up his paper. Anne rolled her eyes tolerantly and took up her coffee cup again.

 

Connie seemed put out by the answer, and huffed as she pushed herself back into her chair.

 

Nothing more of that line of conversation was brought up at the table. They went on to spend the rest of the weekend in Wiltshire. Connie didn’t broach the subject again, and John found that he did not mind that one bit.

 

What he did mind was that Sherlock ignored any attempt at discussing controlling their private broadcast network. In the end, John had to ask Elisabeth. The matriarch attempted to be helpful, but was very obviously distracted for some reason that she did not mention. John didn’t know how to ask her if he might help, and the entire business concluded in frustration.

 

Sherlock was less than amused when the frustration served to teach John a quick lesson on blocking him out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have chapter four.
> 
> Oh my goodness I wasn't sure I was going to survive NaNo this year. @_@ One more day and 5,994 words to go to reach 75,000 (which was my final word count lat year).
> 
> Sorry this took so long to post, but I did warn you all. ^_^;;
> 
> Also, if we're terribly unfortunately unedited, I will look back at it tomorrow. Please let me know if there are any glaring spelling/grammar errors in this.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the prolonged absence, as well as any glaring typos in this. Things happened away from screens, and I wanted to put this story up despite other distractions and so on. (Plus, it is almost November, and I may descend into the murky depths of NaNo again, so I wanted you all to have this story before then.) Right now we're looking at 3 chapters.
> 
> EDIT: 4 chapters. Not 3. And I blame a combination of Anne and Sherlock for it.


End file.
